


These storybook villas

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/F, Fpreg, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey Les, I don't want you to worry, but apparently I passed out or something, and I'm <em>totally</em> fine, but they're doing a bunch of tests -- I mean, I'm here anyway -- so you focus on having an amazing day and I'll see you tonight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	These storybook villas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sacred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sacred/gifts).



> Prompt at the porn battle was 'whipped cream'. Apologies for using it non-traditionally.

Protesting slightly, Leslie's body falls back onto the pillows. "You know, Ann," she says, attempting to lift her arm and wipe the sheen off of her wife's lips but finding herself far too rubber-bodied for the task, "when we first met, I thought you might be good. In bed, I mean. But I -- and I will admit this on record -- had no idea _how_ good." 

Ann sits back, her fingers still drawing curlicues on Leslie's thighs. "I do like to think I have a little mystique."

"I'm actually," she yelps, Ann's thumb having done a cursory flick over Leslie's clit, "pretty impressed that you manage to keep your Cassanova-esque skill set under wraps."

Ann licks her lips. "You're not so bad yourself, you know."

Leslie arches an eyebrow. "Not so bad?" If there's one thing that will spring life back into her limbs it's the threat of a challenge. "Just let me catch my breath and we'll see just how not bad I am." She frowns. "That made sense in my head."

Licking off her fingers, Ann grins. "I'm ready when you are."

*

Leslie listens to the series of messages while waiting in the council chambers for the next round of meetings, smiling when Ann's voice floats towards her ear. She's missed their daily talks since the whole getting elected and coming out and not wanting any (more) negative attention, like the kind that comes from a trial, and "as much as I love you, and working near you, I honestly love the hospital and it's probably safer for both of us", so they try to take time every day during the day to talk. "Hey Les, I don't want you to worry, but apparently I passed out or something, and I'm _totally_ fine, but they're doing a bunch of tests -- I mean, I'm here anyway -- so you focus on having an amazing day and I'll see you tonight." 

Okay. 

She's... not worried, exactly -- after all, Ann is a nurse and therefore can't, logically, get sick -- but Leslie notices a small tightening of the muscles in her hand before she pushes _next_.  
"Hey Les, okay, this is really weird, but Doctor Hayes thinks he's found something, and it's totally not bad, so _don't worry_ , I mean, I think it's not bad, but okay." She takes a breath here, and Leslie really wishes she had breath-translating powers to see if its a scared breath or an excited breath or an _I AM ACTUALLY DYING_ breath. But she doesn't. Have that power. "I'll see you at home. Have a great day!" 

Definitely some mixed messages there. (Mixed messages. Hah.) Someone should really tell Ann how to leave a message (of course, Ann tells Leslie that her own messages are like audio books, and not the kind with fun celebrity voices, so it probably shouldn't be her). Next. "I'm picking up JJs. Any special requests?" 

Leslie hangs up, her brows knitting together. Deciding that it won't do anyone any good to let herself get worried about _probably_ nothing, she takes a cleansing breath (Chris is big about cleansing breaths, and Leslie's found that sometimes they actually work) and types out _Waffles of course! Love you!_

* 

Ann must have impeccable timing (she does, normally. Ann possesses hundreds of amazing qualities.) because she waits until Leslie takes the first bite before blurting out "I'm pregnant." In retrospect, she tells Leslie later, it was a bad idea, because performing the heimlich is never fun. 

When Leslie has caught her breath, she sputters, "What? Who? How? When? Are you cheating on me? You aren't cheating on me! Science! Fetus! How? What? _What_?" After a cleansing breath, two, Leslie presses her palms onto the table (unable to quite still her tapping index finger), and looks Ann in the eyes. "Please explain?"

Ann blushes. "Well, Doctor Harris, well. He isn't the best about giving patients information in the first place, but I got the impression that he was -- is -- a little confused. Confused but mostly accusing me of sleeping with dudes. Which," she looks pointedly at Leslie, "I _so_ have not." Leslie watches Ann speak, her face tinged with concern, absolute trust, and maybe a little excitement (growing, despite herself). Without looking, she cuts off another wedge of waffle. "And the only explanation I can think of isn't so much an explanation but a sort of Occam's Razor. _You_ got me pregnant, Leslie."

The heimlich isn't fun the second time, either.

*

When they're clearing the table, Leslie catches Ann's hand. "It'll be okay." She squeezes, repeating the action in a silly pattern until Ann smiles. "You're awesome, and I'm pretty cool myself. So there's no way this _won't_ be the best baby _ever_. And," she pauses, presses her lips together, "we only talked about kids that one time, but. If you don't want to do this, I'll support you. You know that, right?"

And this time Ann does the squeezing, dropping the JJs container back onto the table to hold Leslie's hand in both of hers. "I want to do this. Mostly, I want to do this with you."

"One hundred percent," Leslie agrees, nodding and pumping her hand to seal the deal. "One hundred and ten. One hundred and _twenty_!"

*

Mostly, Ann is tired. They spoon in bed after long days at work, Leslie cupping Ann from behind, whispering against her shoulder. Sometimes they talk about work, about the citizenry and the parks, about injection prep and scrubs. Mostly, they talk about the baby.

"I read about these rats," Leslie says, her fingers walking inch by inch down Ann's side, "in Australia. Two lady rats had a baby. And I think there was science involved or something, but Ann, do you think we're like those rats?"

Ann's stomach tightens with repressed laughter. "I think we're just us, Leslie."

"Oh. That makes sense. I was just thinking it would be cute to have a little rat baby, and we could name it Shannon."

Ann exhales in some approximation of a laugh. She catches Leslie's fingers in hers and squeezes. "If we have a rat baby, we can name it Shannon."

*

Ron solves a near-crisis in the second month. (He's come to expect the flash of blonde hair as Leslie returns to the Parks department almost daily, usually with some Very Important Task for Tom or Donna and very rarely him, because really, she knows better. He hasn't come to expect that part of his life will not involve providing solutions to pregnancy cravings.)

"Look, Leslie. I don't understand this, nor do I particularly want to. The miracle of life is best left unsolved and unexplored, in my opinion. That said, you are a decent person, and so is Ann. And considering that your request involves one, possibly two, of my favorite activities, I am only too happy to oblige."

Leslie stares at him open-mouthed for a good thirty seconds. "I _really_ thought I was going to have to hold your birthday over your head, Ron."

"I'm ashamed to think you even entertained the possibility of my _not_ preparing barely-cooked meat for a friend."

*

Sometimes, Ann isn't tired at all.

"This is okay, right? I mean, the baby won't get all excited or something?" Leslie attempts to blow her bangs off of her forehead with a puff of air. Her hands are... occupied.

Of course Ann, beautiful Ann, takes care of it for her (she really is the kindest person Leslie's ever met), kisses her quiet, and scoots closer. "Keep doing that, and I promise the baby won't mind at all." She shifts her hips, sets her lips at the corner of Leslie's jaw. "Keep doing that."

*

Leslie's jostled awake. 

"Ann?" Leslie whispers, gently squeezing her wife's shoulder. 

Ann groans. "Urgh. You smell like waffles," she murmurs. She's just having some sort of waffle-related nightmare. Not that waffles and nightmares ever belong in the same sentence unless that sentence is "Leslie awoke from her nightmare and found that all the waffles in the world were _not_ gone after all!" Still, the likelihood of Leslie smelling like waffles is pretty high, despite having taken a shower or two since her last JJ's fix. Even despite the evidence that Ann's sleeping chastisement stems from reality, Leslie is more than willing to write it off. At least until morning. 

When Ann, upon seeing Leslie applying whipped cream liberally to her morning coffee, runs from the room gagging. "I'm sorry, I love you," she says, between choking over the toilet, "but apparently the baby hates everything you love, including me." Flushed, Ann rests her forehead against the seat. 

"Oh, Ann," Leslie coos, kneeling next to her wife on the tile, rubbing Ann's back in slow circles only to be rudely interrupted by Ann shoving Leslie away and ducking back over the toilet. "Okay," Leslie says from the doorway, beginning to get mildly irritated (How can the baby not like whipped cream? What kind of abomination--?). "I was going to say that that the baby obviously doesn't doesn't hate you, but maybe the baby hates you." 

Ann just groans.

*

It's kind of a problem.

Leslie can deal with her part of the vomiting and the back pain and the sudden surges of anger that seem so out of character (Leslie's first instinct is to bite back, which of course does more harm than good) and the apologies, the countless, rambling texts and massages that come after ("I'm sorry you yelled at me and I yelled back," starts one quickly-aborted attempt). 

She can handle coming home to Ann, knee-deep in her closet, having already come near tears and back about four times, unable to find an outfit for the Council-person's dinner that fits properly, doesn't make her feel like a balloon, and isn't her swimsuit (They don't go after all. Government might be important, okay, it's definitely important, but Ann beats all that crap. "Even if you feel like a balloon." There's another massage for the tally).

She's gotten used to the extra space between them in bed, the shifting of positions that takes minutes and groaning instead of quick, panting seconds.

But Leslie can't quite wrap her head around a baby -- she's sorry, a fetus -- that doesn't like whipped cream.

*

The summer heat is, hands down, the worst. Leslie fans herself through meetings and ends up excusing herself early to bring Ann, who's starting to cut back on her hospital shifts, ice cream. And nine times out of ten, Ann's asleep, mostly-naked and swollen and glorious on their bed, and Leslie eats the Cocoa Batter herself. She doesn't mind.

*

They don't have a rat baby.

But they do name her Shannon. (And thank whoever, because the whole whipped cream thing was just a fluke.)


End file.
